Mizzle

The pathways diverge when you look at plants, the line of stem parting to go two ways, maybe more, eventually to flower, itself an expression of future and forward motion. Skin unfurls and green shoots push and at the end something pretty blooms for a time.

Over the top of the hill wind splutters with the 'mizzle' from across the moorland. The sound enters the house through drafty gaps in the window. Looking out at the grey sky, green land, the sound joins the pool of aural memory and ceases to speak of this moment, instead being a reverberation of childhood spent in drafty houses and long looks out at the land beyond.

Small knarly trees in sillouette hold out against the grey sky, warped, wrapped in the wind. Young trees that look old in this ancient landscape. Flattened shapes of grey hedgerows receeding back into the mist.